Morning Routine
With gentle strokes, I brushed all my teeth out of their sockets that morning. I didn’t notice until I heard them fall one by one on the linoleum. I felt for any that remained, and my index finger went through my lower jaw with no effort. There was no pain.
I pulled away, but a broken sliver of jawbone caught the finger and it peeled off the knuckle. I checked with my tongue, and my finger was still there. In doing so, I wore my tongue to a flailing stump. There was no pain.
Blood was splattered all over the sink. I looked in the bathroom mirror, and my stained white robe sank as it cut into my shoulders. I held my hand out in front of me and looked at the finger stump. I heard my bones pop as my arms began to crumble at the shoulders. There was no pain.
I brought a hand to my forehead, and it lodged itself into my brain. The finger in my jaw had fallen out, cutting a long gash. The weight of my body was too much for my pelvis, and my torso fell between my legs. There was no pain.
When I hit the floor, the shock sent some of my bones flying to the corners of the floor. I darted my head around trying to find a possible solution, and in doing so, I broke my neck. I tried to scream, but my voice became a gurgling whisper as my larynx shriveled. There was no pain.
I stared at the high ceiling with my neck snapped backwards. The arm in my head obstructed my view, but somehow I could still see through my splitting eyes. As my lungs filled with blood I struggled to breathe. I should have been dead by then. The weight of the robe snapped whatever flesh was left on my torso and I fell in a twitching puddle. There was no pain.
I sat there decomposing, watching the sky change colors in the bathroom window. As the blood over what remained of my eyes coagulated and blinded me, I waited for anything. There had to be pain. There just had to be.
